


The Center of the Universe

by Syls Darkplace (sylsdarkplace)



Series: Center of the Universe [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylsdarkplace/pseuds/Syls%20Darkplace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our friend <a href="http://tebtosca.livejournal.com/">tebtosca</a> assures me you all will enjoy 23kb of Dean lying in bed with Sam; so here you go. Occurs mid-season seven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Center of the Universe

Dean drifts up out of sleep vaguely aware of how strange that is. He’s never drifted out of sleep. Even as a kid he would awake alert for danger or the sound of the Impala returning from a hunt. Even hung over, Dean woke up pretty quickly.

But not tonight. Tonight, he awakes pressed against Sam’s back, an arm slung over Sam’s waist. His cheek rested against the back of his brother’s neck. To say that Sammy is big is just an understatement. Sometimes he makes Dean feel small – and he isn’t. Sam liked to joke that Dean was the little spoon just to annoy his older brother, but realistically it was a better fit.

Of course, it wasn’t always that way. He remembers Sammy curled against his chest, his head tucked under Dean’s chin, baby fine hair tangled around Dean’s fingers. He was the center of Dean’s universe then – his to protect and guide and care for. It wasn’t that Dean didn’t resent it sometimes.

He did on those days when he wanted to stop and play baseball with classmates but he had to run to the kindergarten to walk Sammy home. Or later when he just wanted to hang out with the guys or take a girl out, but he had to stay home and get Sammy’s dinner, make sure he did his homework and took a bath, and got him to go to bed before midnight. And then there were the nights of fear when their dad left them alone at some skeezy motel or pay-by-the-week efficiency, when the threat of creepy humans or blood-thirsty monsters was just outside a flimsy door.

He did resent it, but it’s just how things were, and he really couldn’t imagine it any other way. Sure, he could imagine that their mom was alive, and he and Sam could be like other kids living in one house, going to one school, being ordinary brothers. And then he couldn’t – he couldn’t imagine Sammy not coming to him crying with scraped knees or laying his fevered cheek against Dean’s when he had the flu or looking to him for reassurance for a hundred different reasons.

He couldn’t imagine not being the center of Sam’s universe until he wasn’t. Until Sam started looking beyond their motel room, their transient life – when Sam’s gaze was at ordinary families – something he’d never had even for a moment like Dean had. So Dean tried to give him all the normal he could. He tried to protect Sam from the hunting and the monsters and the death. Even after he started going with their dad on hunts, he tried to hide the truth from Sam.

It all ended, came crashing down the night Dean was sliced open by a werewolf. He had four long gashes across his ribs, and John had carried him into the room bleeding and weak. He had begged his dad not to take him home like that, not to let Sammy see, but John said it was about time Sam manned up. He was ten. Even now, lying there in the dark with his arm around his overgrown brother, he could see the look in Sammy’s eyes, the knowledge that whatever was out there could take Dean away too. He realized that Sammy wasn’t stupid, that he had suspected at least part of what their dad was doing, but maybe he hadn’t realized that the one constant in his life, his big brother, could be at risk. Sam blamed John, came to really resent him after that and was angry with Dean for not standing up to their dad.

Sam had pulled away as though distancing himself from Dean could protect him from the horror that followed them everywhere they went; as though losing Dean wouldn’t hurt as much if he wasn’t as close. Dean knew better, thought he did, but when Sam left for Stanford, Dean figured he was wrong. Sam might be the center of his universe, but he wasn’t the center of Sam’s.

He didn’t know what to do with himself at first. He drank a lot and avoided his dad as much as possible. Sam might think that Dean always thought John was right, always accepted whatever his dad said, but Sammy was wrong. Defending John was a knee jerk reaction. He held his dad up as a hero because he had to in order to keep going, but he never forgave John for running his little brother off. And once, just once, looking in his father’s eyes, he knew that John knew it too. John knew that he’d taken away Dean’s reason for being, and he pushed Dean into hunting even harder as though he could substitute it for Sam.

And Dean tried. He tried like hell to make hunting his life, make it mean what Sammy had meant to him, but that was a joke. He knew that too. Saving people was a noble pursuit, but it didn’t come close to protecting Sammy. You can’t trade your reason for being for a job, however, honorable it might be.

Part of him was happy for Sam, happy that he’d got out, that he had a normal life, a girlfriend, all the nerdy school crap that he loved. But he also knew Sam, knew him better in some ways than Sam knew himself, and he knew that from that moment he’d staggered into their room torn up by that werewolf that Sam was no longer innocent, and once you knew the truth, you couldn’t unknow it. He knew that much as Sam denied it, after eight years of hunting, he was an adrenaline junkie just like Dean.

Sam could have the house with the white picket fence, two kids and a dog, but he’d always know what lay in wait in the dark. There was more threatening the people he loved, that apple pie life, than most people ever suspected. He’d always know that besides crime and war and disease, there were monsters, and like it or not, he was a hunter. Nothing brought that truth home harder than Jess’s death. That night was up there in the top 10 worst of Dean’s life. He wasn’t sure why. It’s not like he could have known what was about to happen, that he could have warned Sam or done anything to change the outcome.

Sam looked fine to anyone but Dean. Dean could see the way he bled on the inside. He could see the wounds, but he couldn’t get to them to patch them up. He pushed Sam at girls hoping at some point his brother’s libido, if nothing else, would get him to reach out to someone else. But, no, for all of Sam’s touch-feely angst, the kid thought even more, and he thought that he was responsible. He wouldn’t get involved with another girl or put her at risk. Then, finally there was Madison … well, that sure as fuck didn’t work out.

Dean sighed and shifted against Sam’s back. Sam took Dean’s hand where it was lying across his stomach and brought it up over his heart, held it there with his own.

“You okay?” Sam whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean said and pressed his lips to his brother’s shoulder blade. “Yeah, fine.” He knew Sammy wouldn’t believe that, and sure enough, Sam rolled in place to face Dean.

“Really? Because you’re thinking so loud, you woke me up,” Sam said. Dean could hear amusement in his voice, and he liked that.

“What are you going psychic again?”

“I know you.”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward, tipping his head a little, and caught Sam’s bottom lip between his own. He sucked on it before licking into Sam’s mouth, which opened to him willingly. There was a slick slide of tongues, soft press of lips, and hands exploring, caressing bodies that were already so well known – every swell of muscle, ridge of hard bone, every scar.

It hadn’t always been like this. Not at first. Not after Stanford. It was during Dean’s year before hell when he knew he was going to leave Sam forever, and Sam knew he was going to lose Dean that they’d first crossed the line. In those days, it had been desperate, frantic, adrenaline fueled need.

The hunt had gone wrong, and Dean had been knocked out a second floor window by a spirit. He’d been sloppy and reckless, and when they got to the motel, Sam was furious.

“You stupid son of bitch,” Sam had yelled and bounced him off the wall.

“What the fuck, Sam?” He’d come right back at him, pushing at Sam, which he realized wasn’t as easy as it had once been. It was more like shoving a brick wall, and Sam had grabbed him and practically lifted him off his feet. He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up half sitting on the dresser with Sam wedged between his legs and his brother’s tongue licking his tonsils. All he knew was for the first time in a very long time, he was the center of Sam’s universe, and that felt right.

Then, instead of pushing each other, they were pulling, pulling and tearing at clothes and each other, and skin was sliding against skin, and Sam was pulling him down on the bed and spreading his legs and rolling up against him. They were hard, and the need was almost too much. Sam was saying, _Please, Dean, come on_ , and Sam had lube, which Dean didn’t question. He had done this with a couple women, really experienced women, but this was his little brother, this was Sam, and he worked him open until Sam demanded _now_.

He pushed into Sam’s body, and it was so hot, so tight, so right wrong… oh God, this was home. Even as Dean thought it he shied away from the notion, put it away for later as he buried himself in Sam – in his smell and taste and the sweet, tender channel that swallowed him like a hungry mouth. Sam’s legs were locked around him and his fingers dug into Dean’s thighs. Dean reached between them and stroked Sam’s cock. Fuck, that was big like the rest of Sam – hot and drooling – within moments cum was spilling on Dean’s hand and across Sam’s chest. Muscles clenched around Dean’s cock and that was it. The orgasm knocked the air from his lungs and bowed him forward. He pressed hard against Sam’s ass, filling that tight hole with his seed.

Sam pulled him down on his jizz slick chest, and held him tight. Dean kissed him and tasted tears. _Don’t leave me, Dean_ , Sam whispered.

Of course, he had, not by choice, but that was the deal. Still, for the rest of the year before the hell hounds took him, neither looked for anyone else. They needed each other, and they were there for each other. He didn’t know if it made the separation easier or harder, and it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a choice – being together or being apart. It was what it was. They were like twin suns caught in each others orbit.

When he’d come back from hell, things had been different. Dean didn’t realize why. He didn’t know about Ruby for so long, how she’d been driving a wedge between them. He wondered sometimes if he’d pushed Sam just a little. If he’d tried to start up where they’d left off … spilled milk or water under the bridge or some such shit, he supposed.

He’d almost lost Sam then. Even before he jumped in the pit, Dean almost lost him – a combination of his own pride and disappointment made him push Sammy away. If he could change something it was when he repeated his father’s words, “If you walk out that door, don’t come back.” He thought Sam was choosing Ruby over him, and that hurt too damn much to live with. He knew now that wasn’t true. Sam had thought he was right, thought he was saving the world and wanted Dean to trust him, to believe in him.

But Sam had lied to him. He knew why, but he was slow to forgive, slow to trust again. It had just hurt too damn much. In the end he was there for Sam. He had no choice, and Sam had proven himself, had saved the world, stopped the apocalypse. Gone. In hell, and no one knew better than Dean what that meant.

Dean had to live with that, with Lisa and Ben, drinking and grieving and out of his mind. He tried to live that apple pie life, but all he dreamed of was Sammy, his baby brother, his lover, the center of his universe. He wanted to die, but he’d promised Sam. If nothing else, if he couldn’t save Sam, he could do that, he could keep the promise no matter how much it hurt.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers and presses his lips to Sam’s neck, sucks and rolls the skin bringing blood to the surface, marking him.

“Dean, stop it. I’m not some 16-year-old girl in the backseat of the Impala,” Sam says, but he huffs out a laugh.

“I don’t do teenage girls, Sammy.” Dean tries to sound indignant, but he chuckles. “Anyway, you love it.”

“Hm, love you,” Sam says and catches Dean’s lips a little off center in the dark.

When Sam came back from hell, he was different. Dean knew right away, but told himself that hell changes a man. He knew that. But that wasn’t it. No. Castiel revealed his little brother was without a soul. Sam’s soul was trapped in hell with Lucifer and Michael and Adam. This not-Sam was a shell with all Sam’s memories. He remembered loving Dean, but he didn’t love him. The day that not-Sam told Dean he didn’t care about him? Yeah, that was one of Dean’s top 10 shitty days too.

He’d gotten Death to retrieve Sam’s soul, but his brother was fragile. He knew, they both knew, that the wall could come down at any moment, and then it had. Castiel took it down. And since then, Sam had been tormented by Lucifer – visions or hallucinations of him. He wasn’t real, but Dean feared he’d lose his brother again. This was almost more than Dean could bear.

And then came the night at the warehouse. The night that Sam took off with someone he thought was Dean, and when Dean found him, Sam came within a hair’s breadth of shooting him.  
“I’m real.”

Those words had dispelled Sam’s vision.

“Believe in me.”

Sam had. Sam believed in Dean as Dean pressed his thumb into Sam’s wound – Dean’s presence and the pain had grounded Sam. That was it. He still saw Sam do it – digging his own thumb into the now healed scar to remind himself that Lucifer wasn’t real.  

“Dean?” Sam says.

“Don’t leave me, Sammy.”

“Not going anywhere.” Sam kisses his forehead.

“Lucifer …” Dean’s throat tightens, chokes off the words.

“Isn’t here. I told you. He isn’t here when you touch me, when we’re like this.”

Dean crowds against Sam, pressing his face into the curve of Sam’s neck. Sam cards his fingers through Dean’s hair and kisses the top of his head.

“Then we should just stay here like this,” Dean mumbles.

Sam’s breath chuffs across his hair as he chuckles. “Just stay in bed forever?”

“We’ll get a hotel with room service.”

Sam laughs and tips his head up, kisses him. “Right. Whose names on the credit cards? Donald Trump? Oh, that’s right we’re off the grid.”

“Yeah, and it’s damn cold in here.”

“I can fix that,” Sam says as he slides his hand down to cup his brother’s ass.

“Yeah?”

“Definitely,” Sam says and licks into his mouth, and Dean feels a flush of heat run through him.

“Mm, I think you can,” Dean murmurs and dives back into his brother’s mouth. Sam’s hand slides up his spine and cups the back of his head. Sam’s hands are so big and warm. Dean’s muscles melt in response. Sam tips Dean’s head sealing their lips together as he tugs on Dean’s tongue and that goes right to Dean’s dick. He moans into Sam’s mouth, and Sam breaks the kiss, sucks on his brother’s bottom lip. Fuck, Sam knows every trick, Dean thinks.

He rubs against Sam like a cat, feels their thickening cocks catch tender dry skin almost painful, trapped as they are between them. His fingers dig into Sam’s ribs, and Sam’s hand on his ass is pulling their hips tighter against each other.

Dean’s trying to roll onto his back and pull Sam with him, and when Sam gets with the program, he rolls onto Dean’s chest and moves between his legs. His mouth travels down Dean’s neck in a series of nips and kisses. He pauses at Dean’s collar bone to suck a bruise onto his brother, rolling and sucking at the skin, making Dean squirm.

“Now who thinks he’s a teenager in the backseat?” The question is barely a breath as it leaves Dean’s mouth.

Sam chuckles, chuffing hot breath over Dean’s over sensitized skin, which Dean feels like he’s about to jump out of. This is how Sam gets to him – as much anticipation as actual performance because however this ends Dean knows it will be awesome. Sam’s teeth graze over a nipple and Dean’s breath hitches in his chest. His fingers are twined in his little brother’s hair, and he’s trying to subtly move Sam’s head lower.

“Sam, Sam,” he pleads.

Again, breath chuffs against his chest.  “Have a little patience, Dean.”

“Nggh,” Dean moans as Sam’s chest rubs over his hard, leaking cock. “Tryin’.”

Sam sucks the other nipple between his teeth, and Dean’s hips jerk in response.

“Fuck, Sam, please.”

Sam releases the nipple with a swirl of tongue and begins kissing his way lower.

“Your killing me, man,” Dean says.

“Mm-hmm,” Sam murmurs just before his tongue pokes into Dean’s navel. He puts his lips over it and sucks.

“Dude, come on,” Dean complains and Sam laughs outright.

“Jerk,” he says.

Dean strokes Sam’s hair. “Bitch,” he says, but it sounds like a plea.

Then, his cock is engulfed in hot, wet bliss as Sam swallows him to the base.

“Fuck,” Dean blurts out.

After all that teasing, Sam isn’t messing around. Half of what makes Sam so fucking good in the sack is how unpredictable he can be. Just when Dean thinks he’s going to zig, he zags, and holy fuck, is he zagging. Dean’s hips roll upward, and Sam doesn’t try to stop him. Dean’s hands are still in Sam’s hair, gripping now, and, fuck, Sam’s mouth is like nothing else in the world. Sam was always a good student, and he has studied Dean – knows how much suction he likes, how he likes the slit played with, that a hand is as good as lips around the base, the head’s what’s important. And Sam’s not basing any of this on his own preferences. Dean knows this because he knows what Sammy likes, and it ain’t the same.

Right now, Sam’s hand is jacking the base of his cock while his mouth moves in counterpoint, and Dean arches, groans. His hips roll. Much as he wants to fuck into his brother’s mouth until he explodes, he wants something else more. He lets go of Sam’s hair and slaps his palms down on the bed next to him.

“No, stop,” he says.

Startled, Sam pulls off his cock. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Want you in me,” Dean gasps.

“Yeah, yeah, need the lube,” Sam says.

“Right there,” Dean says and gropes for the nightstand. Sam slaps his hand away and  kneels to squeeze some onto his hand and slick his cock. Then he’s back, pushing Dean’s legs up over his shoulders and his knees under Dean as he presses the head of his dick against Dean’s hole. There’s no need for prep. They’ve done this so often. They both open for each other without pain or pretense. It’s what they want, what they need, and they both know it.

Sam is pushing into him, stretching and filling him. That’s so right, everything he needs. In the dim moonlight, he can see Sam’s silhouette, head bowed, back slightly arched, as he continues to push in, and Dean knows how it feels, what it means – the disbelief that they can be this close, this good, this right, and the gratitude, the fucking thankfulness.

Sam is balls deep in him, and he looks up. Dean can’t see his expression but he feels his gaze as Sam leans over him and starts to move. Dean throws his head back at the first slide of friction, rub of pleasure. Indescribable, literally like nothing else. Awesome as Sam’s mouth on his cock had been, this just does something to Dean whether he’s giving or receiving because this isn’t just about the orgasm. This is about Sam being a part of him. This is about trust, and, fuck, they’ve gone down a long fucking road to trust again. And they’re here. Together.

Sam leans down, bending him in half, and kisses him sloppily on the corner of the mouth. Dean moves his hand between them. His cock is like steel wrapped in silk. Hot, feverish and slick with precum, and Sam’s cock is, has to be, there’s no physical way for it to be in there and not rubbing over his prostate. Pleasure is building, tension coiling in his gut. His balls are drawing up.

“Dean, Dean.”

“Yeah,” he gasps, and cum gushes across his hand and belly. His body arches off the bed, and his muscles tighten around Sam’s dick, his brother grunts and pushes into him, rocks inside, and Dean knows Sam’s spilling inside him. Fuck, that feels so good, so right.

Dean lets his legs drop around Sam’s waist. Sam rests against Dean’s chest and nuzzles his neck before putting his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean wraps his arms around his little brother. They belong to each other as much as to themselves. He knows now they always have. Even in the darkest hours, there was no one else. Not really.

No matter how far they got from each other, gravity always pulled them back together. This right here was the center of the universe, Dean figured, and he was lucky to be there with Sam.  


 


End file.
